“Where are you hurt, my dear?” repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing voice. “Only tell me where you feel pain?”
The boy, showing his sister’s arm, said, in a surly tone—“It is this that is hurt—but it was not I did it.”
“It was, it was!” cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: “it was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press.”
“No—it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell backwards.—Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady.”
“I can’t,” said the girl.
“She won’t,” said the boy.
“She cannot,” said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it. “She cannot move it; I am afraid that it is broken.”
“Don’t touch it! don’t touch it!” cried the girl, screaming more violently.
“Ma’am, she screams that way for nothing often,” said the boy. “Her arm is no more broke than mine, I’m sure; she’ll move it well enough when she’s not cross.”
“I am afraid,” said Madame de Fleury, “that her arm is broken.”